The Sound of Charity

In the part of town
Where we slide together,
The horse hooves never stop
Landing.

Part flushed with drinks, part glowing,
I told you, “nonsense,” that chariots
Were never made from used weapons
Or armor.

“No, it’s true,” I couldn’t stop you by glowing
From saying, “They were really
Made that way, and I know because
Sartre.”

(The portrait above the mantle is growing
If I don’t straight away go
And see it.)

Maybe Sartre bought such a chariot,
Or the device slipped
In among his thoughts, inspiring
Him to restlessness,

To lean in and kiss her above my mantle.